


Missing From My Heart

by textbookone



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookone/pseuds/textbookone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That morning Emma had laid her first love to rest. During the day her anger had fueled her, the need for vengeance giving her purpose, but now in the middle of the night Neal's memory would not let her be. All she wanted was sleep, but a pull she couldn't explain wanted her to follow it on a journey of remembering and understanding.</p><p>A Study of Emma's grief post 3x15/Quiet Minds. SF implied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing From My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> How do we grieve? How do we process the loss of people who helped shape our lives, who made us the people we are now? Even if they held a large role or a small one, we all go through the process differently, but grief can make us think and feel things that so often feel outside of who we are, who we believe ourselves to be. When were are at our lowest of lows sometimes we think and feel deeper truths than we would ever admit to another living soul. Some of us use the experience to reach out to others, some of us turn in on ourselves and have to find a way through the labyrinth on our own. Some are successful, others are not. 
> 
> This is my exploration of how Emma Swan might grieve. Writing this was my grieving process, and while some may argue with my characterization of Emma, I feel like she has a deep well of untapped emotions that she avoids at all costs. We have seen her break down slightly over the course of the series, but if faced with a real, personal loss, and the time to actually process it, rather than running from one disaster to the next, perhaps these would be some of her thoughts, ranging from the mundane to the extreme. When we are at our lowest we often cannot control what we think and how we feel, sometimes amplifying our real thoughts to things that we may not immediately recognize as our own truths.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you find a truth in this about Neal Cassidy’s death for yourself.

Even after more than a decade apart, losing Neal was like being shot through the heart and watching yourself bleed out on to floor without a way to save yourself. This wasn’t the first time Neal had been lost to her, the mix of abandonment and presumed death complicating their already painful past, but this time it felt definitive, if that were even possible at this stage. This time she had hugged his head to her chest until his last breath, had seen the coffin encase his body, the lid close, and watched her Tallahassee fade away under shovel after shovel of dirt. He had told her to find Tallahassee without him, but that foolish man would never know it was a dream that lived and died with him. Henry was all she needed to be happy, but Tallahassee could never be achieved without the one who made Henry possible in the first place. 

It had been a long, trying couple of days. Focusing on finding Zelena was the only thing that kept her together long enough to not crack, thankful that someone else had taken care of the funeral arrangements. Heaven knows she couldn’t take on that as well, not with the unspoken questions in Henry’s eyes, wanting to know how long she had known his father was around, and at what point the deadbeat had gone from a villain to a hero in her eyes. He kept quiet though, probably knowing that someday she would tell him, but if Henry prodded now he would get nothing more than diversions and vague answers. There would be a right time, if he waited.

There would be a right time. Funny how after Neverland Emma had briefly flirted with the idea that there would be time for everything, that even if she wasn’t ready now, Neal and his blasted persistence would be there when she was. Yet being the Savior would forever be her curse, that unfair inevitable truth once again ripping from her the first man she had ever loved. She had gone on before, and she would strengthen her battlements and go on once again. But those “if onlys”. God. The “if onlys” hung in the air like a cloud of smoke, looking to choke out every last breath of air from her lungs. 

The clock on her phone shone a blinding 3:15am. It had been hours since the funeral and her last look at one Neal Cassidy before the earth of his adopted land had swallowed him whole. At the moment she didn’t even want to think about their failed attempt at liberating Gold, and the Witch vs. Witch showdown on Main Street that had left her sporting a few bruises herself. Now, in the quiet of the night there was nothing to do but think. Stupid, awful thinking. 

Emma had tried sleeping, but once the immediate anger at Zelena had subsided her mind went wild with memories and thoughts she couldn’t control. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, heard his laughter, wanted to reach out and run her fingers through his scruffy dark hair. Later, days or weeks or months from now she would probably worry about losing him in her mind, but tonight she just wanted to shut it all down and drown in the nothingness of her own exhaustion. Just to sleep and wake up to a world where Neal once again floated in her periphery, still alive, even if forever the sun to her moon, the fire of his birth name, Baelfire, always circling a fate that would never let them truly be together. She had gone for days with no sign of him and now her senses were being assaulted with a barrage of imagery and memories and there was no escape.

Lying there in her bed in Granny’s Inn, listless, with sleep just beyond her reach was maddening. There was a tightness to her face from unshed tears, a pressure that made her head ache, and her heart cry out for mercy. It had fueled her rage most of the day, a useful thing when going up against a powerful witch, but now she was at a loss for how to cope with the overwhelming reality of an ever after without him. He had been out of her life for so long, and yet knowing that he was dead and never coming back changed everything. That hope, regardless of how fleeting it may have been, was now gone, leaving instead an painful hole in her heart.

Eventually unable to take it anymore Emma slowly rolled over, careful not to disturb Henry’s slumber on the adjacent bed. She desperately needed an escape, but in the middle of the night he would be fine, right? What would be the chances that the one instance she left him unattended Zelena would turn up to convince him 3am pancakes were something super nice (and strange) ladies did in Maine, causing another Neverland like quest down a stinking Yellow Brick Road?

She needed air, something, anything to escape the weight of the feelings and memories that she had become so damn good at escaping in the past. At this point anything to get to sleep would be a Godsend, but lying here in bed was getting her nowhere. Pulling back the heavy homemade quilt, Emma reluctantly forced herself upright, exhaustion seeping from every pore, her body reminding her constantly that it wanted to rest, but sleep was belligerent and stubborn tonight. With the curtains drawn the room was dark, her eyes working that much harder to make out the details; Henry curled up under the covers, back to her with his face to the window. His coat and scarf haphazardly thrown over the suitcase at the end of the bed, despite her directions to hang them up in the closet. At a loss for what to do, Emma pocketed the the room key off the nightstand, felt for the first jacket in the closet, and silently snuck out the door into the quiet hallway, flannel pajamas, slippers and all.

The second floor hallway of Granny's Inn was quiet and empty, which was completely expected, the Swans being the only guests after all. Moonlight touched every surface of the hallway, and she took a moment to adjust. The air was different out here, more still, less constricting. Left would take her down the stairs, to the main entrance and the sitting room. Right would take her farther down the hall, to more rooms and a dead end. Solace was the goal, the directions didn't matter. All that mattered was being alone, finding some quiet corner to collect herself before attempting to either sleep, or make it through another day on pure adrenaline, but being alone was key. Emma Swan did not mourn in public and the last thing she wanted was to give Granny more to gossip about. She was the former sheriff after all, not some bereaved widow for public discussion.

The sleep deprivation was doing a number on her. Here she was, standing in the doorway of her room in the middle of the night in her pajamas. How far did she really think she was going to get? This was stupid. Just go back to bed Swan, she thought to herself. Nothing good happens this late at night. Being out now was just asking for another disaster to hit, yet her feet were rooted to the floor, almost of their own accord. There was some sort of pull out here, like the moonlight was pointing towards something she didn’t understand. Out of habit she reached towards her neck and sought comfort in the tiny piece of silver that had crossed worlds for her.

The weight of the charm was in itself both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. For so long it had been a constant presence against her chest, the weight of the metal, the warmth it reflected off her skin, and the slight groove worn into the back from years of absentmindedly caressing it's smooth surface. It had been with her for years, a source of comfort as her hands played with it out of habit, and then one day it was gone. It had been her choice to give it back to Neal, to protect herself from admitting it's true meaning by associating it with anger and betrayal. After everything that had happened over the last year she had thought about it less and less, usually only when she found herself reaching for something that was no longer there. She had needed that familiar comfort in Neverland, but every time her hand met with only skin she was reminded of how Neal was gone, probably somewhere at the end of a portal bleeding to death and alone. Or at least she thought he was, until he had come back to her and she had allowed her fears to overwhelm her love for him. But now he was truly gone and all she had left was a trinket around her neck and an empty heart. It was an unfair, uneven trade; one that she would gladly reverse without hesitation.

Lost in thought, her eyes closed and her feet began moving of their own accord, right, then another right. The floorboards creaked slightly under her weight, one hand on the necklace, the other outstretched, skimming the walls as she walked. The texture of the wallpaper under her fingers a welcome sensation until it abruptly ended, replaced by something smooth and painted; a door frame. Opening her eyes Emma was met with plain brown paint over wood and an unassuming brass number staring back at her. The door to room eight looked no different than any other in the inn, yet beyond its threshold was the shrine to a dead man. To anyone else it was another room in a cozy little inn, but Emma knew better. This was Neal's room. Or had been, and she had been here before.

Twice she had picked the lock to this room. The first time had been before the Neverland disaster, her need for vindication overriding her common sense. While Henry had loved the thrill of participating in another “Operation”, initiating her son in the world of breaking and entering at the age of eleven was perhaps not her finest moment. 

The second time had been more recently. When they’d first arrived back in Storybrooke and Emma had learned of Neal’s disappearance she had done what came naturally to her trade; gone to the last place her missing person had stayed and picked the lock of Neal’s hotel room for the second time. At the time no one had seen Neal around town, and while it seemed obvious for someone to have looked for him in his own hotel room, the need to see proof with her own eyes was a habit Emma still hadn’t lost, even after every fantastical thing that had happened to her in the last however many years since Henry had come back into her life. 

The brass number eight was cold to the touch, her hand reverently reaching up, barely ghosting it’s surface. There was so much meaning behind this door, and as much as part of her wanted to be on the other side, it was all too much for her frazzled mind to take. No, this would be as far as she went. If she never saw the inside of that room again she could always pretend that Neal was still in there, waiting for her to throw around another biting accusation, or that he was just asleep in bed and she would see him in the morning. From this side she could pretend forever and never have to face the reality of what lay on the other side. She could walk away. She had the power. 

Her forehead came towards the door, as if communing with the cool brass would ease her heart, but the moment of contact was brief, the door giving way to her touch, pushing open ever so slightly with a soft click. Eyes wide, panic rising inside of her, Emma stood motionless, hand frozen where it had expected resistance. No. She was going to walk away. She was going to leave things be, go back to her room, back to Henry and pretend this was all a strange case of lucid dreaming, or sleep walking, or something that would take her away from this moment and back to the safety of her world, grieving from afar. Yet her feet denied her request to leave. Something wanted her on the other side of that door, something deep in her being that whispered to her that the solace she sought could be found, if only she was willing to step across that threshold. 

Unable to ignore the pull she pushed the door open further, eyes skimming across every surface. She shouldn’t be here, she didn’t want to be here, but that same tug in her soul that had brought her here continued to beckon her further inside, her feet betraying her with each cautious step. It’s just a room, she told herself. It’s just a room. 

This time, just as the last, the room was that combination of eerie quiet, a space haunted by absence. Moonlight streamed in through the window showing a still made bed, suitcases for two still against the wall, an overnight bag on the dresser inside the bay window, clothes still hanging in the closet, all signs of a life cut off mid-act. It almost felt like a violation, the same as entering his apartment in Manhattan had felt, once she had known whose dwelling she had been in. The cleanliness of every surface was in stark contrast to the thick coat of dust everywhere back in that New York apartment. Here she could almost pretend that he had just gone out for the night and would be back in the morning, everything sitting in it’s place waiting for him to return. The scene in his home several states over was a different story. The tableau of scattered items spoke of someone having left in a hurry, but the dust was an epilogue of abandonment on a story that never should have ended this way. She wished she had remembered everything back then, if so she would have taken more time, more time to feel his touch on everything surrounding her, to truly understand who he had become over the last ten years.

If they ever made it back to New York, out of the insanity was always at the core of Storybrooke, she would go back to Neal’s apartment. Henry could come with her. He would love all the little nicknacks Neal had collected, evidence of what he did, how he lived ... who he loved ... It was the only real footprint left on the earth that spoke volumes about a man that would never get the chance to know his son as the young man he was becoming, but at least, if anything, it would allow Henry to know a little bit about the man who had crossed worlds for him, even if it had lead to his death.

Continuing her slow tour of the tiny room, her eyes glanced around at the homey decor, flowered wallpaper, dark wood furniture, so many things that said nothing about the last person who had stayed within these walls. Instead she found her eyes focusing outwards, lost in the memory of that apartment so far away. A pitiful Manhattan excuse for a kitchenette to her left, old couch to her right, lockers for shelves against the far wall, artwork that spoke of his interests but lacked the personal touch of photographs, the home of someone trying to find his place but lacking the true human connections they had both wanted so much in their youth. And straight ahead, the window and the fire escape where she had confessed her sins to Henry and where father and son had met for the first time.

The way the moonlight streamed through the window made her pause. Something wasn’t right. Something important was missing. Moving forward towards the bay window in an almost trance like state she reached out for an object that wasn’t there. The dreamcatcher. There should be a dreamcatcher in the window. The chill of the glass window pane against her fingers broke the spell, her foggy mind reminding her that this was not New York, this was not Neal’s apartment. The dreamcatcher was miles and miles away, not unlike the promises it had represented. 

Reality set back in like a heavy stone in her stomach. Already finding herself leaning so far forward, it took little effort to transition her whole self onto the windowsill, legs bent into her chest, her forehead easing itself towards the window pane, the temperature of the glass temporarily relieving some of the pressure in her head. The view of the front of the inn, the overgrown hedges and trees swaying serenely back and forth with the night breeze, and the stillness of the town beyond. Between the movement of the foliage she could see hints of bright yellow, her old bug parked on the street just beyond the gate. Neal’s old bug. 

How many times had she sat in that car without sparing a thought to where it had come from, all the adventures it had been part of, or the young love that had blossomed behind it’s wheel? She had spent years suppressing the memories, all the good times having been cancelled out by that one act of betrayal, everything right in her life gone in an instant. Yet she had kept the car, kept the keychain, and in her fake memories she had kept their child. It had taken her so long to build herself back up the first time after she had lost him, after he had left her at the wrong end of the law to pay for her naive love for him. Yes, it had been her own mistake to help him, but he had promised her a home, promised her Tallahassee, and she had believed him. 

Her time in lock-up had been lonely, frightening, and possibly the biggest turning point in her life. She had given birth to Henry there. In one timeline she had become a mother, and in the other she had hardened her heart to the world, to impish smiles and promises of home, but then all it had taken was one look from both men in her life to realize that they would eventually break through her walls. If Neal had promised her home again, maybe, just maybe, despite herself, she might have started to believe again. Now he wanted her to move on and find it with someone else, but there would only ever be him. Him and Henry, and she would hold onto Henry as tightly as her arms would allow, to not lose him as well. But this town was going to drive them apart, she just knew it. Regina’s false memories had been a beautiful gift, making up for her decision to give up Henry all those years ago, and while the memories weren’t real, the longer they were here, the closer Henry came to finding out his mother was a sham, and that eventual revelation terrified her.

Before Henry had dragged her to Storybrooke he had been alone, a lost child who felt misunderstood and unloved. While Regina had loved him the best she knew how, he was such a smart kid and could somehow sense that something about his world was wrong. He had come looking for Emma because he needed her. It had taken her too long to realize just how much she had needed Henry too, but if he got his memories back, remembered how much love there was in this town for him, what would happen? Now, even without those memories he was observant enough to start seeing inconsistencies and holes in Emma’s stories. If he remembered, would he need her the same way anymore? Would he still want to go “home” to New York, or would he insist they stay in Storybrooke?

But going back to New York was safer, wasn’t it? There he had friends, there he was normal. There he needed her, said an evil little voice in the back of her mind. But here he would have the family she knew he longed for, every ridiculous, convoluted branch of their insane family tree was here. Here they were, just waiting for him to wake up so they could embrace him with the love she knew he had wanted so badly when he’d sought her out as a brave, risk taking ten year old. A ten year old who was so like the father she knew he so badly wanted to know. Even if she tried to tell him about Storybrooke, the real Storybrooke, it wouldn’t make any sense. But she could tell him about Neal. Maybe not the Neal he had met once, but the Neal who she had loved without reservation when they were young, the Neal who had the nerve to ask her out while she was stealing his car, the Neal she would have done anything for. That Neal hadn’t been a hero, but he had been her world at a time when the only lessons life had to teach her was not to have hope or believe in anything or anyone. Funny how that ended up being the lesson he had taught her in the end anyway, but that was before… before everything. Before Henry believed in her, believed that the Savior could bring the happy endings, and that by following him maybe her own happy ending could be possible as well. 

It should have been the three of them in that battered little bug, taking road trips, laughing and being a family, all the things that they had dreamed of. Their own Tallahassee, going wherever the road would have taken them. The jumble of her cursed memories and reality brought back thoughts of Henry throughout his childhood asking, sometimes even begging for any nugget of information about the man he had never known, and yet Emma had kept it all close to her chest. Cursed Henry only knew the facts, but facts had never been in Neal’s favour, or at least not the ones she had known. Now Neal would never get the opportunity to tell Henry the story from his own perspective, allowing their son to judge his father for himself. Now it would be up to Emma to fix things, to make Henry understand just how much his dad had loved him, how much he had wanted to be a part of his life from the moment they had met. Neal had understood better than anyone what growing up without a father was like and he was willing to do anything to fix the sins of the past. Neal had asked for so little on his deathbed, and Emma wasn’t sure she could live with herself if she failed him in this one task. But if she shared her Neal with Henry, not anyone else’s version of Neal, maybe then they would both find peace. 

She was still trying to figure out what having two sets of memories meant. Maybe it was a conversation to have with Mary Margaret. The dual memories clouding her mind were making it difficult to process things the way she knew old Emma Swan, original Emma Swan would have, walls up and filled with anger. Those emotions were still there, and during the day they were her motivation, but here in the night, alone, her fortress was made of straw and there was a whiff of smoke in the air. What was it about the Cassidy men that so easily allowed them to reach into her heart and twist her feelings and emotions so easily? She had already moved on once, almost been engaged even, but one stupid memory potion and everything had changed. Neal had been just a distant hurt that she had blocked out, so why then was she here? Why did she hurt so damn much? Now she wasn’t sure who was really in mourning, real Emma or cursed Emma. More than a decade and Neal still had this pull on her heart that she couldn’t escape. Why was fate so cruel?

The combination of memories in her mind made already complicated emotions that much more so. The years of loneliness, the years of struggle, the years of hating Neal were all real, but the vivid dream memories kept trying to convince her of a different narrative. So much of her wanted to hate him, hate him for giving up on them, for giving up on her, no matter his noble intentions, but so much had happened since. In the woods they had fallen back into such familiar patterns, like they were two puzzle pieces that just fit. She was never good at being honest, truly, openly honest, but there is was, it was just so clear in the way they fit together. It was terrifying beyond words that someone could still hold that piece of her for so long, a piece she hadn’t even know was gone until there he was again. It had shaken her to the core that first time in New York, and then when he was gone it hurt so much more than losing him the first time. Now she wasn’t sure what to think, what to feel, but for the brief moment a piece of her had come home and everything had felt so right, and then it was gone again. She had a trinket to remember him by, and his death wish for her to move on, but it would never be the same. How do you move on when you’ve lost half of your heart? In her dream world raising Henry had been her stability and comfort, though in reality she had spent 10 years being broken, lost and alone. Now… who knew what happened next.

The sensation of falling jolted Emma awake with a start. Confusion disoriented her senses, the chill of the windowpane having seeped through her clothes, causing her to rub at her eyes and pull the open jacket tighter around her body vainly for warmth. Good grief, had she actually fallen asleep? Of course, the one time she finally started to sleep it had to be here, she thought ruefully. How long had she been there, curled up on the windowsill lost in thought? Her legs and her back had started to cramp, the the once soothing chill of the glass now making her headache worse. Rotating her neck helped slightly, but pins and needles had set into her legs, making any movement temporarily sharp and painful. Shifting herself off the sill, the sensations shot through her lower limbs the moment her feet touched the floor. Great, now this, and her head still hurt after everything. God, what time was it anyway? This was stupid. Get it together Swan. Go back to your room, go back to Henry, get some damn sleep and then go fry a witch tomorrow. 

Shaking off the last of the pins and needles from her system, Emma bent forward for one last stretch, the pain lessening with each movement. Eyes towards the doorway, straight ahead was her escape from the weight of all the memories surrounding her. Just a few steps to cross the threshold and she would be on her way back to Henry, just slink back into her fortress and forget this whole midnight rendezvous with her grief ever happened. Hopefully no one would be the wiser and this little visit could stay a secret between her and the stupid moon that had drawn her here in the first place. 

One step forward, that’s all it would take, but something wanted her to stay. No, she would fight it. Fight it and leave. Freedom was so close, but there it was, that same pull from before was calling to her, something in the moonlight that wanted her to release the doorknob and turn around. Behind you, it whispered. Behind you. 

Under the bed, caught in a shaft of light from the window, one last memory the moon wanted to share with her. It was there, a little sliver of light blue, almost white in the radiance of the moon, all aglow and begging to be seen and not forgotten. 

Reaching down to observe her final clue, she was surprised to find herself holding a lump of discarded fabric in her hands, her nose wrinkling at its odor the closer she brought it to her face. At first she didn’t understand why this crumpled, smelly ball meant anything, or why it had wanted to be found so badly, then the realization hit her in a wave. She knew what this was. A shirt. The shirt Neal had been wearing the day he had been shot. The same one he wore when he appeared in Neverland, miraculously alive. Obviously after returning, the offending shirt had been deemed more unsaveable than Peter Pan's soul and had been cast aside. But here it was, its every wrinkle and stain telling the story of the lengths Neal would go for Henry, the lengths he would go to show them both that he would fight for them no matter what. After a year it shouldn't still smell like him, but who knew what happened to everything in this town during that missing year. In reality the shirt was filthy and stank, but the flood to her senses was becoming overwhelmingly real and in her sleep deprived state she clung to that sensation like a lifeline. The bullet hole over his heart where she couldn't protect him. It was all still there and probably the closest she would ever be to him again.

Bathed in the moonlight that was now witness to her trespass that night, here was where all the pressure and pain finally won its fight for release. It had been building from the moment Neal’s head left her lap on that forest floor, when her personal mission of vengeance against his killer had begun. Emma had cried in the moment as he died, she had cried out of sadness, out of helplessness, out of shock, but now this feeling overwhelming her was more than all of it combined. Once the tears began she could no longer fight them, their slow beginnings building until the weight of the emotions caused her legs to give out. The edge of the bed caught her fall, her whole body finally releasing everything it had ever held in. She cried for Neal, for not being able to save him when his life was literally in her hands. She cried for not being able to find him sooner, for not being strong enough to keep him alive, for not being able to talk him out of his request for death. She cried for the father and son reunion that would never happen, that she had denied his request to see Henry only hours prior. For being separated again by another curse, for forgetting him, the real him. She cried for watching him reunite with his own father, only to watch him die before their eyes. For thinking he was dead after the portal, that she couldn’t hold on long enough for the both of them. She cried for the deathbed I Love You’s, and that she was never strong enough to say them again to his face.

When she remembered her words in the Echo Caves, her literal and metaphorical wish for his death her whole body quaked with grief. Unable to hold herself upright any longer, her strength long gone, she tipped towards the pillows, legs finding their way to the mattress, shirt still held within her grip like a vice. Those words! Oh those stupid, awful, terrible words. She had meant them, the caves would have seen to it that they had never left if she hadn’t, but not like this, never like this. Her weakness at being able to confront her own pain had translated into a prophecy she would forever regret, one she would always blame herself for. Was this really all her fault in the end? Maybe if she had worded it better, maybe if she had been stronger. Maybe… maybe if… maybe he would still be here?

Was this to be her breaking point? That one stupid little thing that broke the dam, burned down her fortress and let all her demons out? Was the lowest point she had always done everything in her power not to get to? She was strong, she was stoic, she would not be weighed down by emotions, but no matter the mantra there she was, dirty old shirt in hand, weeping like a child. They were supposed to have their Tallahassee, they were supposed to find a dinky place in a new town where they could blend into the scenery, raise their little surprise and have their happy ending. What good was she as the Savior anyway? So far all she'd done was perform an assisted suicide and had watched countless fairy tales stay just as miserable as when she first arrived in Storybrooke back on her twenty eighth birthday. She should have just stayed away, stayed in New York and let things sort themselves out. Hook be damned, family be damned. There she had Henry, that was all she needed. She was stronger than this sniveling mess curled up crying over a dirty, awful shirt, and if she kept repeating it, maybe one day she would believe it.

Another wave of grief overtook her. She cried for their lost past, for the future they could have had, for the twelve years they could have been together, and for the future they would never have. She cried for Tallahassee, and that even though he probably already knew, she would never be able to tell him that he had promised her a beach. She cried for Neal, for every should have, for every would have, for every could have. For every possibility they never had, and would never have again.

It had been more than a dozen years since she had been held by him, had kissed his face and memorized his scent, but if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough maybe she could remember. His head lying there on the pillow staring back at her with that stupid cocky grin of his, like the world was their own private joke, but never was she the punchline. In her mind she was once again that 17 year old girl, both hardened to the world, but naive of the pain that was yet to come, in the back seat of that old yellow bug wrapped up in one of Neal's shirts instead of a blanket. His smell surrounding her, protecting her. His arms wrapped around her with the promise of Tallahassee. She had dared to dream then, but now no amount of dreaming could bring back Neal. Slowly existence itself faded to black, and for once the universe took pity on the Savior and she did not dream.

Sunlight streamed through the window, warming her outstretched hand into wakefulness. The feeling of Neal next to her, his arm around her waist, his scent on her pillow. His heat, like the sun, a warm blanket covering her from feet to shoulders, the world slowly coming into focus. Cautiously she stretched out her arm further, careful not the disturb her partner with a smile on her face, her head tilting slowly to catch a glimpse of her Sleeping Beauty, but the bed was empty. 

The weight of reality set back in, her smile gone. There was no Neal. There would never be another Neal. His battered shirt was still clutched to her chest, her other arm returning to it, momentarily afraid that it too was just a figment of her mind. Her head returned to it’s indent in the pillow, feeling the dampness that still remained from the night before on her cheek. One arm broke away from her prized possession, reaching out towards the edge of the bed, trying to soak in every last ray of warmth, praying for it to give her the strength to go on. Deep breaths. One. Two. In. Out. Her walls were dangerously low, but the sunlight began to surrounded them like fire, whispering to her of safety and purpose. Henry was her purpose. Henry was her reason. Henry was -

Clarity shot through her. Sunlight. Morning. Henry! How long had she been gone? Panic began to well up inside of her, guilt at having lost her mind and leaving him alone for so long. What if he had woken up and gone searching for her? Emma scrambled off the bed and rushed towards the door, her limbs causing her to stumble slightly as they attempted to catch up with the wakefulness of the rest of her body. Hand on the doorknob, and a brief hesitation. The moonlight had wanted to keep her here, but the sunlight warmed her steps, urging her on her journey. One last cursory glance, then across the threshold and back towards her room. Back to Henry.

The sunlight in the hallway lacked the warm of Neal’s room, but reversing her steps from the night before with more purpose and speed brought her back to the room she shared with Henry. Her hand was on the knob, ready to return to her room, but cautious in case Henry had yet to wake. Slowly she turned her hand and carefully opened the door, but only wide enough to slip herself through and back inside. Her hand behind her back against the door, slowly moving to close it behind her as quietly as possible. Looking across the room, in Henry’s bed was a human sized lump covered in blankets, maybe if she just slipped back into bed he would never notice she had been gone. Closing the door with a soft click, she was in the clear as long as -

“Mom?” The sound of Henry’s voice, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness coming from the mound on the bed, his voice echoing behind the sound of the closing door. “Where were you?” he asked slowly. 

Caught in a moment of panic, Emma clung to the door. How to explain away an absence she didn’t really understand herself? She began to speak, but no words came to her defence. Trying again brought her less luck. Slowly Henry was starting to rise, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He looked at his mother’s face, then down to her one arm that was clutched to her chest and had been since escaping Neal’s room, unconsciously taking with her the one thing the moonlight had wanted her to find. 

Seeing her panic and how tight her grip was Henry was moved to ask, “Mom? What’s that?”

Following his line of sight Emma looked down at the bundle of blue held against her heart. Raising her gaze Emma took stock of her son, her beautiful, wonderful, son. In his face she saw so many of his father’s features, the smirks and mannerisms that both hurt and comforted her to see. Slowly, with much trepidation, she came around to his bed, her free hand coming up to play with his brown hair, so very much unlike her own. Henry eyed her with confusion, not really understanding the full weight of the moment, or the weight of the knowledge that his mother was trying to find the courage to share with him. Emma stroked her son’s face and took a breath, attempting to steady herself, reaching inside for the fire that had lapped at her walls and given her strength down the hall only minutes before. 

The sun and the moon, always fated to mirror each other but never destined to be together. The moon whispered to her the secrets that needed to be shared to release both their souls from this purgatory of memories. The fire kept her burning with the will to tear through her walls and open her heart to her son in a way she never fully had been able to do before, by sharing the one secret that had been hers and hers alone for more than a decade.

Resolved, a sad smile gracing her face, Emma Swan held her son’s face in her hand and whispered the words she had been too afraid to speak his entire lifetime. 

"Henry. I want to tell you about your dad."

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements: Thank you so much to Dontstopbelievin and Onyx at the ONCEPodcast forums for all your help and support while I was writing this! You ladies are the best betas I could have asked for! <3


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